


And All Futures

by engagemythrusters



Series: Time Loves You [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: COE Fix-it, Immortal Ianto Jones, M/M, Temporary Amnesia, Time Vortex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: If it had taken Ianto a while longer





	And All Futures

After over three thousand years, he nearly remembers it all. He’s not surprised it took this long. He actually expected it to take longer, if he was entirely honest. If Louise were still around, she’d have him put it on his list, and that list would be miles upon miles in length.

That’s not to say he understands what he knew. He doesn’t. If anything, it was like looking at himself through someone’s perspective of someone else telling him about this ‘Ianto Jones’ character. He blames this on remembering Captain Jack Harkness’s name about, oh… about thousand two hundred fifty-four years ago. Give or take a few. But ever since he remembered that name, his brain has been scrambled.

At first, he’d have people he knew repeat the name to him, because when people said the name, his brain would buzz a bit and spit forth one or two pieces of information. It didn’t make sense, but at least he could remember it. But when those people had died, he had to revert back to remembering things on his own. Slowly. It was frustrating, and he used to go out onto the streets to have people repeat the name to him. Everyone would look at him strangely, but a good few people would comply, and he’d be rewarded with the name of his best mate as a kid, or the drinks he used to hate, or the pteranodon’s favourite food (he used to keep one, apparently). Eventually, he’d just given up and went back to the slow way of remembering.

He had little hopes of finding Jack for the past few millennia. From what he could make sense of, Jack wasn’t the type of person to travel with one specific destination in mind, meaning he probably couldn’t find Jack even if he had tried. Jack probably didn’t even go by ‘Jack’ anymore, anyway.

Settling down was the last thing he had wanted to do. He tried to, once or twice, knowing that Jack might be doing the same. But the difference between himself and Jack was that he was looking, and Jack wasn’t. Jack could give up, because he didn’t even know he was out there, but he couldn’t, because Jack most certainly was out there. Besides, it was hard to find someone when he knew they would just die on him eventually. If he was a bit more like this ‘Ianto Jones’ that he was supposed to be, he could have probably appreciated the irony in that a bit more.

Now, in the present, about Earth year 5098, he’s got more hope. Well, a bit more hope. A tiny, _tiny_ bit. But it’s still better than nothing. He’s got a good idea of where Jack could possibly be in the next few years. An old friend of his has just reported to him that the Time Agency is crumbling, which means he’s in the right time. Finding the right place is going to be a lot harder, but there is one place he may make a stop. The Boeshane Peninsula.

He’s there. He has been for two days now. It’s a bright, vivid place, and he absolutely loves it. And it’s not at all what he used to assume the place would be like; the whole place reminds him more of an ancient Greek city with some American wild west thrown unceremoniously into it, rather than a futuristic, sliver chrome, ‘life in the sky’ kind of place. He finds he likes it better that way. If he is stuck there for the next few years and still can’t find Jack, it wouldn’t be a waste. He has a good feeling that this might be one of the rare places he could call home. He’s only found four of those in the past three thousand years. In fact, he half hopes that he doesn’t find Jack, so that he can stay here for the next century or so without needing to move on. _Jack_ may be eternally restless, but _he_ can appreciate the beauty of a place for more than ten minutes.

There is one city on the Boeshane Peninsula, named for the landform. It’s more of a large town than a city, really, because it’s a great deal less than Cardiff used to be. But it runs like a city, with a large marketplace and with its vibrant, bustling people.

Most of the houses and buildings are one- and two-story structures, with sandy white exteriors and door-less entries. Despite their otherwise blank appearance, they are adorned with colourful ribbons and fabrics, which flutter cheerfully in breezes. The walkways between the buildings are large enough for two small carts to fit abreast and are paved with cobbled stones that feel like sandstone.

Though the various stores, shops, and other public premises are enjoyable to see, Boeshane’s marketplace is by far its crowning glory. It sits at the city’s centre, and it’s where most of the day-to-day affairs happen. Tables and richly coloured tents circle about a large, white fountain that marks the heart of the city. Merchants sell their goods and services to traders and families, who hurry about for to gather their products. Old women gather in herds to find the best vegetables and herbs. Sometimes they argue with the merchants on prices, and more often than not, they win. Children tug at their mother’s and father’s flowing tan clothing, desperate for attention, while teens hang out by the fountain, gossiping in their little groups of friends. It’s all so marvelous. In his two days in the city, he’s spent most of his time there.

Aside from the city of Boeshane, there are five, large communal housing facilities. Two are to the northeast of the city, two more to the southeast, and only one on the actual peninsula. They can hold about twenty families each, one family per housing unit.

If anyone from earlier centuries of Earth wanted to study proxemics, they should visit the peninsula. It is typical for families, from grandparents all the way down the line, to live together in one house. Generally, the same room, too, and children share the same beds as their parents (except for when they… don’t). It’s traditional for babies to rarely leave the arms of any one of their family members until they are at least half a year old. And holding hands in public spaces is so natural that it’s uncommon to see people not holding onto someone else. It’s incredibly close, and it’s no wonder that he understands Jack to have been a tactile person. He isn’t sure he could ever be comfortable with constantly touching or holding onto someone, which a good reason not to force himself to set up a family here.

But one thing he has thought once or twice is introducing coffee to the area. Of the three last producers of coffee in the fifty first century, he’s the second. He started in the twenty sixth, when coffee started to decline, and has run a business on the planet of Drelan ever since. He has to pretend he’s his own great-great-great-great-however-many-times-great grandson, and he sells his beans only to Earth colonies, but it’s doing well enough. It’s got him quite a bit of money. And for the other two producers, well, the first is some Neilax idiot ridiculously stuck on twentieth century Earth’s beverages for no real reason, and he’s never actually heard of who the third is, and their company is rather small. Together, all three of them produce… not much coffee, but it’s still enough to make a trade in. He hasn’t seen any in Boeshane, and if he’s staying here, he would like to be doing something he loves. Making and selling coffee.

So, on the third day, he sets out looking for a uniform cream building for sale near the centre of the city. If he finds one, he can turn it into a home and a coffee shop.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing good up for sale, and he runs into a language barrier.

As it turns out, the Boeshane Peninsula, after a thousand years of settlement, has developed its own language. Boen. It’s mainly what’s spoken in the peninsula, and they only use their accented, broken form of Universal Standard for the alien traders who show up in the marketplace. As he is human and therefore looks like them, they don’t think of him as alien and speak in rushed Boen at him all of the time.

His own problem is that he’s learned Universal Standard much, _much_ later on in life. A few thousand years later on. It’s nowhere near natural on his tongue, and it’s equally as broken as the Boeshane locals is. And he has a Welsh accent that, though fading (rather unfortunately, he’d have to admit), sometimes makes it hard for others to understand. Especially those on the Boeshane Peninsula, apparently.

At midday on his fourth day in Boeshane, he sets out to find where Jack used to live. Which is hard, because he’s not got much to go on. He can’t just ask for ‘Jack Harkness’s family.’ Well, he can, and he tries, but it doesn’t go very well.

“I know no ‘Jack Harkness,’” one old woman tells him in her clipped Standard.

He remembers with a light tingling the back of his head about one night a very long time ago when he ate curry alone. After three thousand years and he’s still remembering how lonely he used to be. Damn.

“Do you know of anyone who might?” he asks in his own butchering of the language.

“No.”

She goes back to buying something that looked like a purple and yellow courgette.

He tries to think of something Jack might have been known by, but he comes up with a blank. He moves onto anything else useful that he can sort of remember that Jack may have told him. There isn’t much, but there is one tiny detail that comes to mind.

“Then what about a Time Agent?” he asks.

The woman turns back to him and frowns for a moment, before her eyes lighten up and the wrinkles on her face crinkle with a smile.

“Ah!” she says fondly. “Our little Face of Boe!”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“You’re glad to have come to me,” she says, beaming at him.

He ignores her mistake. He makes plenty of his own. “Why?”

“If I were younger,” she says, “I would not remember. I would not know.”

“Did this happen a while ago?” He hoped he got the right era.

“No. But we do not always remember so much, yes?”

“Yes,” he replies, only partly understanding.

“I never met him,” she continues, “but we were all so proud he went. One of us, in the Time Agency.”

He sighs. If she never met him… “Can you tell me someone who does know him?”

She shrugs. “He is big in the Time Agency. A good boy. If you go to them, they can help.”

“The Time Agency is breaking,” he says.

He winces. Breaking? He still doesn’t know if there’s a word for ‘falling apart,’ even after all this time. He supposes that it’s not his fault; he’s had to learn so many new languages, and Standard has been the hardest of all.

“Oh,” she says. “That is sorry to hear. I am sure he is sad about that. No wonder you look for him here. The best place to be sad is home.”

“Mm.” He decides it’s best not to tell the old woman that Jack wasn’t still a part of the Time Agency. It may break her poor little heart. “Where is his home?”

She cocks her head and squints, obviously trying to remember. “I am trying to remember who his family is. He could be a Caro boy or a Thane boy. Maybe a Nils boy.”

“He had a brother,” he says, hazily remembering Gray. “He was lost in an attack.”

The old woman’s face saddens. “Ah.”

“Apologies,” he says quickly.

“No, no,” the woman says, waving a hand slightly, even though her face stayed sorrowful. “You help me remember. Attacks never happen to Boeshane, only to communals. He is not Caro or Nils boy. They live in the city.”

“Thane?”

“Must be,” she says.

“Do you remember which communal?” he asks, praying to any and all higher powers.

She shakes her head. “No. Too many attacks to remember them all. And I never know who lives in right communal.”

“That is more than helpful. Thank you,” he says.

“Do not worry it,” she says, waving him off again.

“You did something for me. Can I do something for you?” He isn’t sure about payment for information on Boeshane yet, but he’s learned that such services are usually paid back in favours and tasks.

She beams. “You are a good boy. My grandson, he would not offer such thing.”

He smiles back. “What can I do?”

“Hold my basket,” she says, handing a woven grass basket to him. “I am not strong like you, like a good young boy.”

“I am sure you are strong,” he assures her as he takes the basket of vegetables from her. “Memories are heavy, and you carry them well.”

“Oh, you are too good,” the woman gushes. “Who are you called?”

“Ihan Jon.”

He's learned that no one can pronounce Ianto Jones. Which is fine.

…Okay, it’s not _fine_ , but it’s not like he feels especially connected to the name. After three thousand years, it still doesn’t feel like ‘him,’ and he’s only used it for roughly eight decades, and never consecutively. He decides that ‘Ihan Jon’ is as good a name as any, and it fits the names of the time period.

“Ihan Jon.” She nods. “It is a fine name. I have granddaughter your age. She is good like you. You should give her your name.”

He blinks. “I… uh…”

“I would say give my grandson your name, but, like I say, he is not good like you.” She sighs. “He would not make a good husband for you, Ihan Jon. But my granddaughter would make good wife.”

“Oh.” He’s not entirely sure how to decline a marriage proposition for a woman by her elderly grandmother.

“I can take you to her,” she offers.

“No, that’s alright. I’m looking for the Thane boy,” he says. It’s the same excuse he’s had for the past three millennia.

“Ah, yes. Face of Boe in the Time Agency. He is a good boy, too. If you marry him, you will both be happy.”

He really has no response for that.

“Look!” the old woman cries, pointing to another stand. “We have to buy some beans.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent with her, buying various foods and spices. There were a few he’s never seen before, meaning they were undoubtably local to the Boeshane Peninsula. He didn’t have a chance to ask, because the old woman, who he later learned to be Eumelia Amad the Third, never shut up. It seems that, now that she’s determined him to be a ‘good boy,’ she wants to take him in and keep him with her. He tells her he’ll spend time with her as long as he stays in Boeshane. When he walks her home, she makes him promise to help her on her days at the market, and he agrees.

“Such a good boy,” she says, patting his cheek. It kind of makes him feel like a dog.

“I’ll see you in three days,” he says.

He waves to her as she enters the house, and then promptly takes off into a sprint when he hears her call for her granddaughter so that she can meet him. He did not come here to get married, thanks.

There’s not much left of sunlight, and he decides to return to the marketplace. He’s not seen the it when the sun goes down, and he hasn’t heard much about it. He’s curious to see what happens at night.

Apparently, nothing happens. They simply pack up and leave. Bit of a letdown.

The next morning is when he heads out to check out the communals. If the Thanes are in one of them, he’d like to meet them. Maybe they have a way to get into contact with Jack.

He stops by the marketplace first to buy breakfast. He noticed on his first day that they had little rolls drenched with an exquisite syrup, and he desperately wants to try them. When he does, it’s all he can do from buying more; they are delicious. They remind him of something he once had on Ceti Gamma Three a while back. He makes a note to pair one with a decent cup of coffee later as he heads out to the further of the southeastern communals.

The communals are similar to the buildings in the city with their sandy white outer walls, but that’s about where the similarities ended. Instead of a rectangular one- or two-story construction, they’re a jumble of boxes and cubes stacked haphazardly. No colourful, decorative cloths hung from the sides, either.

He had been told by Eumelia yesterday that there was no official front door. Just press the doorbell (or the fifty first century version of a doorbell) on one and pray the family in that unit is nice enough to help. He does this, and steps back in mild surprise when a boy of about six opens the door.

The boy says something.

“Standard, please,” he says.

“Hello,” the boy translates, and it’s in perfect Standard. He’s clearly better at it than the adults. “Are you looking for my mother?”

“No- yes. Yes, I am.”

“Why did you say no first?” the boy asks, cocking his head.

“Because I’m not…” He stops. He doesn’t know the word for ‘technically.’ “I’m not looking for your mother in specific, I’m looking for any adult.”

“I’ll go get her,” the boy says, before zooming back into the unit screaming something in Boen.

A woman appears at the door, and she glares at him. “What?”

It’s rather rude, but he’s just thankful he doesn’t have to ask her to speak Standard. “Do you know the Thanes?”

“Which ones?” she asks.

“What?”

“Which ones?” she repeats. “There’s three.”

He tries to think of what would distinguish Jack’s family from the other two. The only thing coming to mind is Gray and the Time Agency, and he’s not asking about Gray again. “The eldest son went into the Time Agency.”

“I know nothing of the Time Agency,” she says, “but the Thanes here don’t have a child yet, and the Thanes in the neighboring communal have only daughters. Try the-” there is a Boen word he doesn’t know “- communal.”

“The what?”

She sighs heavily. “The one on the peninsula.”

“Thank you,” he says, but she’s already shutting the door in his face.

He wishes he didn’t walk to the communal furthest away from the city first. The sun is getting hot, and though he’s wearing the normal light colours that the people here favour, there’s a lot of clothing and he’s not used to this heat. And he didn’t put nearly enough water in his flask. Three thousand years and sometimes he’s the stupidest person he’s ever met. He’s met a lot of stupid people.

The peninsula is breathtaking (although that could still be the lack of water). It’s no wonder that Jack had apparently been so fond of this place. The waters, the sand… it was all wonderful. He keeps an intrigued eye on the waves as he trudges through the sands to the communal.

He presses the first doorbell he finds.

A woman appears at the door.

“Hello,” he says before she has a chance to say something in Boen.

“Hello,” she replies. Her Standard is just as bad as his, and he’s beginning to wonder when exactly Standard was brought to the colony.

“I’m looking for the Thanes.”

“I am Thane,” she says, and he stares. He wasn’t expecting to find the Thanes this easily. Or Thane singular, apparently.

Looking at her, he can somewhat see it. He can’t exactly recall Jack’s face, because it’s the most scrambled of all his memories, but he can see bits of Jack in her. Her eyes, mainly, because they’re just as sad and tired as Jack’s supposedly were. He guesses it’s because she’s lost her youngest son to horrid creatures and her eldest to time.

“Why are you looking for me?” she asks, eyeing him warily.

“Your son,” he says. “I need to find him.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You are from the Time Agency.”

“No. I’m a friend.”

“Prove it,” she says, folding her arms.

Clearly, whatever Jack had done to the Time Agency after he’d left to become a… con man, if he remembered correctly, it hadn’t been good.

“I can’t,” he says, because he really can’t. “You’ll just have to take it on my good word.”

“Then go,” she says, preparing to shut the door.

“No!” he shouts, stopping the door. She glares at him, and he coughs, removing his hand. “Sorry, I… just… look. I’ve been looking for him a long time, and I just need a way to contact him.”

“He is not here,” she says.

“I know. But do you know where I could find him?” he asks.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because…” He fumbled about his brain for a good excuse. “Because he left me. And I need to find him again.”

She searches at him with her hard, sad eyes for a moment, before shaking her head. “He is not here. He is gone. I do not know where.”

“Oh.”

Well, it had been a long shot, but he’s still thoroughly let down. He blames it on the hope he’s been feeding himself for the past week.

“I am sorry,” she says.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I’ll find him some other way.”

“That is not why I am sorry,” she says. Her eyes are kinder now, but even sadder. “Javic always leaves.”

And then she shuts the door.

Javic.

It doesn’t bring the buzzing that ‘Jack’ does, but he supposes that may be because Jack was Captain Jack Harkness when they were together, and not Javic Thane.

He heads back to the hotel he’s staying in and makes an attempt to ignore the raging disappointment he feels. It doesn’t work. He spends the rest of the day trying not to punch something.

The next day he does nothing, because it’s the day of rest in the Boeshane Peninsula. Kind of like a Sunday, but even more relaxed. It’s on this day that he decides that, though Jack may not show up ever again (because apparently, he even lets his own _mother_ down), it’s not going to stop him from having a good few years here. Tomorrow, he will find himself somewhere more permanent to stay, and he will decide whether or not to fully invest in introducing coffee to Boeshane.

After his trip to the market with Eumelia.

He shows up at her door at the time they’d arranged, and she beams up at him.

“Such a good boy,” she says as soon as she steps over her threshold and into the sunlight. “Picking me up. How thoughtful.”

“This _is_ what we agreed upon,” he reminds her.

“Ah,” she says, tapping her forehead with two fingers. He’s seen this gesture from the older Boen people in the past few days, and he wonders what it means. She’s still grinning at him, so there’s a fair chance it’s something cheeky. “So it is.”

“Let’s go,” he chuckles.

“I must get beans again,” she tells him as they walk down the cobblestone paths to the market. “My grandson, the one who is not good like you, he loves them. My granddaughter, too.”

“I’m glad.”

“She is most like your age,” she says. “Good age for marriage.”

“Um.” He can’t tell her that her granddaughter is most certainly _not_ his age.

“Bah,” she grumbles. “You have not even met her, and you are already not happy. You cannot be not happy until you know a person, yes?”

“I’m just not looking for marriage right now, that’s all.”

“You boys who are not Boen, you are all strange,” she scolds. “You never like to hold hands, and you wait too long to marry.”

“Do you wish for me to hold your hand?” he asks.

“That is how we do it in Boeshane.”

“Then I’ll hold your hand,” he says, taking her weathered hand.

This appeases her, and she drops all conversations of marriage after that.

In the marketplace, they start in the grain tents. She sniffs each type of grain before deciding which type she wants today, and then compares prices through her favourite sellers. She orders a sack of a grain he’s only seen on Albali before, and the merchant sets it aside.

“We pick it up later,” she explains to him as they move on. “So that our arms to do not get sleepy while we get the other food.”

“I see.”

“Now. We must get more beans.” She ushers him to the vegetable stands.

She fusses over beans for quite some time, and he gets bored and explores. He’s checking out the purple and yellow courgette things when he Jack’s mother appears beside him. She doesn’t seem to notice him as she inspects a couple of the strange vegetable. He watches her for a moment. Her brows are furrowed, and her eyes are focused on the courgette-things, and even through concentration she looks sad and tired.

“Ah!” Eumelia cries, pushing through the crowd to him. “I lost you! I have the beans.”

Jack’s mother’s eyes snap up to him as Eumelia joins them. He feels slightly like a stalker as she gives him an accusatory glare.

“Who is this?” Eumelia asks.

“She’s someone I was looking for yesterday,” he explains.

Eumelia takes in Jack’s mother before grinning wildly. “Mother of the Face of Boe! You must be proud. He is a good boy.”

Jack’s mother merely blinks.

“If you are still looking for the man,” Eumelia says to him, “you must stay with his mother and ask. I will take my basket and shop alone today. I will meet you in three days for market again!”

She snatches her basket from him cheerily and departs. Jack’s mother returns her gaze to him.

“I… uh…” He shifts uncomfortably.

“She is too old,” Jack’s mother says abruptly, turning back to the alien courgettes.

“Excuse me?”

“She likes you, but she is too old for you,” she explains, and he tries hard not to snort at the irony of that statement. “Has she offered you her grandchildren?”

“Maybe.”

“All the old grandmothers do,” she says.

“I wasn’t following you, you know,” he says as she peers at two more of the vegetables.

“I know.”

“Oh.” He watches her buy the two. “What are these?”

She says something in Boen.

“Slower, please.”

“Bhovun,” she repeats. “They are crunchy and taste like bitter water. But they are good for you, and they are good for salads.”

He picks one up and studies it.

“You are not from here.”

“No,” he says, setting the bhovun down. “I’m not.”

“Where?” she asks as she starts walking away. It’s a clear invitation for him to join her.

“I’m not really from anywhere,” he says.

“And you have come to Boeshane.”

“Yes.”

“To look for Javic.”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t left.”

“No.”

“Why?” she asks as they stop at a fruit stand. She rummages through a bin of apples.

“Because I like it here.”

“Hm.” She drops three apples in her basket and pays.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I think you are still looking for my son.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” she says, staring him straight in the eye. “He never comes back. He leaves, and he is done. You will not get him back.”

This is something he has struggled with ever since the turn of the thirtieth century. Does he even _want_ to get back with Jack? He knows he needs to find him; it’s the only way to fix his jumbled memories that he rather desperately wants back. But getting back together with him? He just doesn’t know. For one thing, he can’t exactly remember what it was they were to each other. He knows he loved Jack, and probably loves him still, but he’s not exactly the person he used to be anymore. That person sort of died with the memories. Plus, three thousand years have passed. That’s a while to get over someone and forget them. Jack has probably done both already. It’s not like Jack is expecting to see him again. And all this looking… maybe it’s grown a certain expectation for a man that Jack could never be. Maybe he’s concocted a whole new image of Jack, made from fragmented memories and longing, and it’ll disappoint him when Jack isn’t really that man.

This sort of thinking usually does his head in, so he generally stays well clear of it, but it’s starting to become a reality again. He knows who Jack is, and there’s a possibility he could use that information to find Jack. So, when he finds Jack, he’s going to have to make his mind up. Or maybe he doesn’t. If he procrastinates thinking long enough…

No matter. Jack can’t define how he lives at this moment. He wants to be here because he _likes_ it here, not because of the very, very, _very_ slim chance that someday Jack could come sauntering back in.

“That’s not why I’m staying.”

She continues her stare, but nods. “You are welcome to shop with me.”

Not what he was expecting. “Alright.”

“So,” she says, as they walk towards a second fruit stand. “What is your name?”

“Ihan Jon.”

“What is your real name?” she asks.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She throws him an exasperated look. “I know how to spot a liar.”

“Even a good one?”

“Are you sure you have met my son?” she asks, and it’s the closest thing to humour he’s heard from her.

He smiles. “It’s Ianto Jones.”

She tries to pronounce it, and she gets close. He says it slower for her, and she repeats it a few times before it sounds right.

“What name is that?” she asks.

“Welsh,” he says, and then remembers that most people don’t know what ‘Welsh’ means anymore. “Very old.”

“Did my son pick you up from time and drop you here?”

“Not… exactly.” Not a lie, not the truth.

She mutters something that sounds an awful lot like ‘Time Agency’ under her breath.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ada,” she says.

“I’m glad to meet you.”

“I think I am glad to meet you, as well.”

“You think?” he asks with a small laugh.

“I will know more when we eat,” she says. “I am taking you home for lunch.”

“You don’t have t-”

“I want to be there when you first try bhovun,” she says.

They walk around the market as she buys various foods. She buys the local fruits and vegetables so that he can try them. He protests to this at first, but she says that experiences are meant to be shared. He knew she was lonely ever since he first noted her sad, tired eyes, but he is surprised that she’s latched onto him so quickly. Maybe it’s because she wants to relate to someone, and they have one large commonality. They’ve both been left behind by Jack.

Bhovun, as it turns out, is like a bitter cucumber. She also has him try groa and jhea, two very citrusy fruits, and another vegetable that he can’t pronounce whatsoever that is vaguely reminiscent of a carrot. To his delight, the local fish, amih, tastes like cod, while a starchy vegetable called quhal is almost exactly like a potato. He mentions he could probably make fish and chips from these, and his excitement about recreating a long lost favourite dish makes her smile. It’s small, and he barely sees it, but it’s by far the most she’s smiled. He then tells her that he’ll make it for her one day.

“You will try the groa again, yes?” she asks as she pushes a dish with red slices to him.

“Was it this one I liked better?”

“No,” she says, tapping another dish filled with pink slices. “That was jhea. But you will like groa, too, I promise.”

“I can still barely pronounce the names,” he says, taking a slice. “How will I ask for them in the market?”

“I will teach you,” she says. “Or you let me order them all for you.”

“You would do that?” he asks.

“Take you to the market? Yes. I am a better shopper than Eumelia Amad.”

“Teach me Boen, I mean,” he clarifies.

“Well, if you plan to stay here, I should,” she says. “Nobody who lives here for good speaks Standard. It lacks depth. We like our own language too much.”

“I know what you mean.” He misses English.

“Yes. You are as bad at it as me,” she says, and she shakes her head. “Javic was always so good. He spoke perfect Standard. Only with an accent, not bad words, like you and me.”

“He had a Boen accent when he spoke my language,” he says. “I used to think it was a different type of accent, but now I know better.”

“He spoke your language?” she asks doubtfully.

“He had to, he was stuck on our planet and we didn’t speak Standard.”

“I never thought he would learn another language,” she says. “He always liked Standard so much. Always yelled at me to speak it more. I told him no, we are Boen. We do not speak a language that has no meaning to us. Made him mad. Did your language make him mad, too?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “At least, I don’t think it did. But Jack said he liked it when I talked.”

“You do have a very nice accent,” she says. “It is hard to understand in Standard, sometimes, but it sounds nice.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that why you called him Jack?”

“Is what why I called him Jack?” he asks, as his mind buzzes and he remembers fishing with his dad one time.

“Your accent. Was it too hard to say Javic?”

“Oh. No. That was the name he used. I didn’t know that was his name until you told me.”

She sighs. “First his language, now his name. It makes me sad that he doesn’t want to be Boen anymore.”

“I think he does.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“When he talked to me, he always sounded like he missed here,” he says, hoping his disorganized memories were correct.  She still eyes him in doubt. “He was stuck on a planet that was nothing like this, with no way back. I think it made him see some sense.”

“He is not stuck now, and yet he has still not come back. You came here, and you already have a home.”

“Not anymore, I don’t,” he says, taking a piece of groa.

“I am sorry,” she says. “But you are welcome here, in Boeshane. It can be your home now.”

“I’d like for it to be.”

“Good,” she says. “Because we start on your Boen tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

She shakes her head. “I am a weaver. I make my baskets at night when I am alone and sell them in the market midweek.”

“Oh.”

“I can teach you that, too.”

“If you’d like.”

She contemplates this. “I think I would. I will teach you how to make baskets and how to speak Boen.”

“I’ll make you coffee in return.”

“…coffee?”

He nods. “It’s what I like to make. I plan on selling it.”

“But what is coffee?”

“A drink from where I’m from,” he says. “Your son liked it.”

“I am not sure I like things my son likes,” she says slowly, “but I will try it for you, Yan-toe Jones.”

“Ianto.”

“Yanto.”

She does, in fact, like his coffee. She likes it so much that he brings it to her every night when he’s done selling it at the marketplace, and they weave, drink coffee, and she teaches him Boen. He’s not very good at it, but he’s trying. After the first two months of it, he finds himself rather happy he didn’t find Jack. This is possibly the most he’s been at peace for a while.

“You can say bhovun perfectly now,” she praises him after three months.

They’re standing in the marketplace, selling her baskets. Midweek is the only day he doesn’t sell coffee, so that he can help her sell the baskets.

“It’s one of the words I’ve said the most,” he says, rearranging a stack of baskets. “You make it every night.”

“It is good for you,” she says. “You need more vegetables.”

He snorts, because somewhere in his jumbled memories is Jack telling him the same thing.

“Less meat and fish,” she continues. “And less quhal.”

“I still have to make fish and chips for you.”

“Will I like them?” she asks.

“You’ll just have to try it.”

“Make them in three days,” she says.

“Why three days?”

“I already have the meals for the other days planned.” She hands a customer a basket, and they pay her. “Besides. You will be busy.”

“You going to make me learn even more words?” he asks jokingly.

“No. You are going to move in.”

He stares at her.

“What?” she asks. “It is not normal for people to live alone. Not here.”

“No, but…”

“You are family, Ianto,” she says. “I said your name right, so that means it’s true. You move in.”

“But-”

“You move in.”

The next morning, she practically throws most his possessions into a cart by herself to make sure he does move in. He pulls the cart to the communal himself, with her telling him to be faster. He knows she’s joking, and it makes him happy. Three months ago, she wasn’t so relaxed.

“Now, I will not make you sleep in the same bed,” she says. “You can have the second bedroom.”

“Are you sure?” The second bedroom was typically only used for sex.

“Yes. There is no point to it. You can give it meaning again.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She smiles at him and pats his cheek.

“Are you going to tell me I’m a good boy?” He smirks.

“No,” she says with a grimace. “That is what you have Eumelia for.”

“She’s jealous that I moved in with you and not her.”

“She wanted you for her granddaughter,” she says. “You are better than her granddaughter.”

“Ada, that’s mean.”

She waves him off. “Mean is thinking you are not worth more than that poor girl.”

“That’s still mean. No person is worth more than another.”

“That is what family _is_ ,” she says sternly, looking him directly in the eyes. “People who are worth more to you than everyone else.”

He’s touched by this. Somehow this means more to him than asking him to move in. It’s somewhat ironic, though, because he came here refusing to start a family, but here he is, with a new one. It’s just him and Ada, but that’s enough for a family. For once in a very long time, he doesn’t worry about when he has to leave her.

Seven months in, and he’s got regular customers that he knows by name. He speaks to them in his rather dreadful Boen, and they listen patiently as he fumbles with conjugations and syntax. They always smile when he gets something right. Eumelia shows up every day, but she hates the coffee. She just likes to talk.

“You’re getting so much better!” she coos to him one morning.

“I hope so,” he says.

“That Ada Thane,” she says, tapping her forehead. “She’s teaching you so well. I’m proud.”

“I wish I was as good at it as you.”

“You’re better at Boen than I am at your ‘Standard.’” She spits into the sand.

“Eumelia!”

“It is a dirty language,” she says, “that only weak people use.”

He doesn’t argue this with her. This is the third time this has happened, and he knows better than to defend Standard. Everyone here hates it for its ‘meaningless words.’ He knows they’re just too proud of their own language.

“Eumelia,” Ada says, coming forth to the front of his stand to scold her. “He’s busy. He’s got real customers. Let them through.”

She grumbles, but she does as she’s bid. Three of his newest customers, the young Gage twins and their baby brother, step up.

“For your mother?” he asks, shoveling unground beans into a small bag.

“Yes, sir,” one of the twins says.

“Call me Ihan,” he tells her as she takes the bag.

“Yes, Ihan,” she says, blushing.

“She likes you,” Ada says as they watch them leave.

“She is half my age,” he says.

“She still likes you. She’s right to, you’re wonderful.” She pats his cheek. He’s gotten used to cheek-patting by now.

“If you are trying to…” He doesn’t know the words for ‘set me up.’

“I’m not trying anything,” she says, not waiting for him to finish. “I’m just-” there is a word he doesn’t know “-for you.”

“What does-” he repeats the word “-mean?”

She scowls as she tries to translate it. “It is like your ‘looking out for,’ but stronger.”

“Oh. Well, thank you for looking out for me,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“But I don’t need it. I’m not trying to start a family.”

“I know. I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

“I am not lonely,” he retorts.

She sighs but says nothing more.

The Midyear Sands Festival is one of Boeshane’s two biggest celebrations. The other is the Moon’s Eve, the night that the planet’s moon is in the height of its elliptical orbit. An old tradition to ‘bring the moon back.’ It was three months back, but it had been cancelled to small epidemic of a flu. The Midyear Sands Festival, though, is in two days’ time, almost a year after he first came to the planet, and he’s looking forwards to participating.

“During the festival,” she explains as they walk baskets of red and orange ribbons to the city, “we drink only the juice from the groa and jhea fruit. So, no coffee.”

He groans. “I will have… really bad head pain.”

“Migraine,” she corrects.

“Migraine,” he repeats, feeling the unfamiliar word on his tongue. “I will have a migraine.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t drink so much coffee,” she chides.

“I _like_ coffee.”

“You can’t have it,” she says. “Not for the whole three days.”

“I thought the festival was four?”

“On the fourth day, we eat everything our hearts desire,” she says. “It’s what we get for fasting the first three.”

“What do we eat?”

“Only bhovun, amih, and quhal,” she says.

“Fish and chips for the next three days?”

“I might like it,” she says measuredly, “but I don’t like it _that_ much.”

“Fine. Only one day.”

She smiles up at him. “I’m glad you’ll be with me during the festival this year.”

He doesn’t comment on this; he knows how lonely she used to be. This often makes him sad to think about. She had lived a life as solitary as his own generally is. That shouldn’t happen to someone who can only live one life.

“What are we decorating?”

“We get to decorate the fountain,” she says.

“Really?” he asks. “Why us?”

“Oh, everyone loves you,” she says, playfully smacking his arm. “You get everyone to give you all the good stuff.”

“And you get to profit off that.”

“Yes. That’s why I keep you around.”

He snorts, and then stops dead in his tracks. “What happened to the market?”

The marketplace was desolate. The tables, stands, and colourful tents had all been cleared, and the only thing that remains is the fountain and a few families that have shown up early to decorate.

“Torn down,” she tells him. She tugs his hand gently to get him to start walking again. “We need space for food tents and a dancing floor.”

“There are dances?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll teach them to you. Now, come on. We’ve a fountain to decorate.”

She shows him how to properly garnish the fountain. Red ribbons first, then orange. Criss-cross them, and then hang them. They need to dangle so that the lowest the ribbons ever droop is inches from the ground.

“Others will come to decorate the insides of the fountain,” she says as they finish. “We only need to do the base.”

He steps back. “Would anyone notice if I had done it wrong?”

“Yes. But they wouldn’t tell you. Like I said, everyone loves you.” She gives his hand an affectionate pat. “Now, let’s go home.”

They spend the next two days preparing for the festival. Work was not allowed to be done on festival days, save for final preparations of meals. They were days of rest. He works on the fish and chips ahead of time and freezes them, so that they’d only have to stick them in a frying pan on whatever day they ate them. He then helps her assemble bhovun dishes in nine different ways, and he wonders how much of it he’ll actually be able to eat before he’s utterly sick of it.

The first day of the Midyear Sands Festival, he wakes up early and finishes the preparation of the first meal. Quhal cakes fried in a jhea sauce. He’s had it once before, and he’s liked it, but this is the breakfast for the next three days, and he doesn’t know how if he’ll ever eat it again after.

“Smells good,” she says as she walked into the kitchen.

“You sure I’m not torching it?”

“Burning,” she corrects. “And no, you’re frying them right.”

She sits down at the table, leaning back and folding her hands on her stomach. She looks exhausted today, but at least she’s got a spark in her eyes that he’s been beginning to notice more and more of lately. He sets down the finished dishes on the table, and she takes hers.

“Mm,” she says after her last bite. “You did well.”

“Not as good as yours.”

“No, but it’s still good. Drink your juice.”

“I miss coffee.” He drinks the juice anyway.

“You can go three days without it.” She gives a laugh, and it’s only half there, but by the time she’s finished, she looks less tired, and almost at peace. “Hurry up now. The festival begins soon. We want to be there for the opening drums.”

The opening drums are not what he expects them to be. On the walk over, he has this imagination of people banging ceremoniously on drums, but when they arrive, and it begins, it’s nothing like that. Instead, there’s just loads of drums, hanging about the newly decorated and fairly crowded marketplace, and people just walk up to them at their own will and bang out something. He doesn’t want to do this at first, because he knows he’ll just feel silly if he does this, but she coaxes him to do it, saying that if he doesn’t he’s legally not allowed to join in the festivities. He taps out a quick rhythm, and a few people standing near that particular drum nod appreciatively. She seems to be less concerned about what people think, and she spends a good minute whacking out a tune. It’s rather impressive, and she looks so content when she’s done.

“Now,” she says, a smile playing on her lips, “we can join the festival.”

By midday, the drums are removed, and everyone who’d had a go at them were allowed to stay for the next event. She explains to him that the first day is the Day of Fire, the second will be the Day of Water and the last two are the Days of Sand. Today they stand among small groups as they watch fire-eaters play with flames. He notes with a bit of shock that the youngest he sees has to be around her early teens, but she seems to know what she’s doing. She’s so enthralled by her blazing torches that she’s playing with that it would be a crime to stop her. He whispers this to Ada, and she tells him it actually would be.

“Strange laws during festival times,” she mutters as another young fire-eater passes by. “If we’d have had a Moon’s Eve this year, you’d know. Nearly a quarter of the population was arrested two years ago for speaking out of turn.”

He stares at her. “Really?”

“Yes. Now shhh. Just because we don’t have a no-talking law during Midsummer Sands Festival doesn’t mean you should talk.”

“Mean,” he whispers, and she grins. Forget the fire-eaters, _she_ looks young.

The fire-eaters leave, and there’s music that strikes up. As she promised, she teaches him a few dances before she practically drags him to the center of the dancing hordes and spins him round. He makes a good attempt at keeping up with her fast feet, but in the end, he’s no match for her.

“Champion dancer when I was a kid,” she pants after what feels like a million dances. “Now? Not so much.”

“You were great,” he tells her, struggling to regain his breath. “Better than me.”

“Oh, you did wonderful for your first time. Tomorrow is the slow dances, and you’ll be better at those, trust me.” She straightens up, hands on her back. “Not as young as I used to be, am I?”

“You are the picture of…”

“Health?” she suggests in Standard. “Youth?”

“Youth.”

She gives him the translation.

“You are the picture of youth,” he completes, and she smiles at him.

“Ha! I wish.” She shakes her head. “It’s rest time, now. There’s two hours before the late-night festivities begin. You can either stay and chat with others, or you can come home. I’m going. I need a nap.”

He weighs his options. “I will stay for a bit.”

“I’ll have dinner waiting in an hour,” she says. “Then we can return together.”

She pats his cheek and leaves.

He spends the first few minutes searching for friendly faces. The Gage girls find him almost immediately, and they try to woo him for a good stretch of time. He only manages to get away from them when their little brother comes running in to tell them that their mother needs them. They rush away, and he feels sorry for them. Poor kids. With their mother as sick as she is, the twins are practically playing her role in her stead.

There was a small crowd growing near the fountains. He only spots it when he goes to inspect his and Ada’s work (which is still holding up nicely), and he decides to walk around the large fountain to see what’s going on. The crowd just keeps gathering, and he’s easily swept up into it. Because he knows there’s not supposed to be anymore entertainment at the moment, he’s wondering what’s going on when he sees.

In the centre of the throng stands Captain Jack Harkness.

His head throbs painfully, surging memories and clarity, and suddenly he is not just himself, he’s also Ianto Jones. Finally. It takes a few seconds of getting used to, both the pain and the coherence, but when his brain finally processes it all, he finds himself standing, openmouthed, and staring at Jack.

Oh, fuck.

He’s not sure if it’s the sudden rush of memories or if it’s because he’s finally seeing the man after three thousand years, but he’s pretty sure… no. He _knows_ he’s still in love with Jack. Damn it.

As he’s currently facing that little dilemma, he thinks it’s best not to throw himself at Jack. He instead settles for watching Jack talk animatedly to the crowd. He can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can practically feel the tone Jack’s using. It’s nice to have his memories back; he can remember stuff like how Jack sounds now. And it’s also not nice, because he remembers Gwen and Rhiannon a little too well now, and he can’t help but wonder what happened to them.

The crowd breaks off after a short while, and Jack turns his attention to something else. Ianto remains rooted in his spot, trying to sort through everything that mattered to him back in the year 2009. If only it hadn’t taken him three thousand years.

Eumelia eventually finds him standing there, and she drags him from the depths of his reverie.

“Come, come!” she cries. “Our little Face of Boe is here!”

“Yeah.” It’s all he can muster.

“You were looking for him, yes?” It’s not really a question, because she’s essentially tugging him across the packed marketplace to follow Jack.

“Um…”

“Ah! Don’t worry, I will help you get him again. Such good boys, both of you. If you won’t marry my granddaughter-”

“Eumelia,” he says, trying to pry himself from her grasp. “I am not marrying anybody.”

“Good boys like you should get married,” she insists as she clings tighter to him.

“Eumelia,” he reiterates. “You promised no more marriage talks.

“Fine, fine!” she says exasperatedly.

Jack is standing at a large table that’s serving groa and jhea juices. He’s drinking in juice and compliments, grinning as other elder women chat at him as they pat his cheeks and try to set him up with their descendants. He seems to enjoy being a local celebrity. It’s nice to know his ego hasn’t changed in the past few millennia.

Ianto manages to yank himself free from Eumelia’s surprisingly strong clutch and makes his way to grab some jhea juice. If he’s going to do this, if he’s going to talk to Jack, it’s going to be after he quenches his suddenly very dry mouth. Shit. Is he going to talk in Boen or Standard? He’s worse at Boen, but it may get him some bonus points for knowing Jack’s native tongue. God, there’s no way he can do this. He takes a second drink from the table and stares at it, deciding that if Jack doesn’t see him in ten seconds, he’s going to leave.

Of course, Jack notices him then. Ianto observes from the corners of his eye as Jack regards him. He turns his head just barely enough to see Jack better, and he watches Jack scowl until his face melts into something else entirely. His heart starts pounding in his chest as Jack pushes past people to get to him, and the terms ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ come to mind as he’s deciding which one he’s going to do when Jack leans on the table next to him.

“Come to meet the one and only Face of Boe?”

It is all Ianto can do to keep his knees from giving out beneath him. Three thousand years and Jack can still sound like an utter cock. Three thousand years and that bloody cockiness can still get to Ianto. And it’s even worse, because he somehow manages to sound even better in his native Boen. God _damn_ it.

Ianto just raises an eyebrow in response. If Jack’s going to toy with him, he can most certainly do the same back. Jack’s eyes widen slightly, but then his smug mask returns. Interesting.

“Tell you what, I can autograph whatever your grandmother sent you over here with,” Jack offers teasingly.

The second eyebrow joins the first as he faces Jack head on. This time, Jack’s eyes narrow slightly before resuming his grin.

“I had a boyfriend who once did that,” Jack says. “Looked a lot like you, too. Made the best damn drink I’ve ever had. I could show it to you.”

Okay. It isn’t just because he has a pretty face that Jack came over, it’s because he has a _specific_ pretty face. He remembers asking for a thousand years, and it looks like he made it to three.

Maybe he _can_ do this.

“Chances are I’ve already had it,” Ianto replies.

 “Oh, you wouldn’t find the likes of it here,” Jack chuckles.

Well, Ianto is a bit tanner thanks to the Boeshane sun, and his accent is still a little weaker, but he’s clearly still him. Jack is either just too thick, self-absorbed, or he doesn’t remember that well. Knowing Jack, probably a bit of all three.

“Pretty sure I just introduced it to them a few months ago,” Ianto says, purposefully throwing in as much of his dwindling Welsh accent as he can.

Jack frowns. “What?”

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Coffee.”

Jack stares at him. “But-”

Ianto just can’t take this anymore. He drops his cup of jhea juice, grabs a fistful of Jack’s shirt, and pulls Jack in for the longest, fiercest kiss of his life.

He’s very aware that the crowds around them have quieted. He just doesn’t care. Days could pass, or the world could implode, but as long as he’s here, with Jack, snogging the daylights out of each other, it wouldn’t matter.

Eventually, they have to breath, and Jack twists himself free with a gasp. His eyes are wide.

“It _is_ you!” Jack says, and it’s a mixture between an exclamation and a whisper.

For Christ’s sake.

Ianto takes a step back, stares Jack directly in the eye, and punches him.

Jack stumbles back a few paces, bumping into bystanders, eyes still searching Ianto wildly. When he regains his footing, he raises a hand to his face.

“What the hell was that for?” he splutters.

“It took my _kiss_ to remember me?” Ianto asks furiously.

“Well, forgive me!” Jack cries in outrage. “It’s only been a few thousand years!”

“But my kiss? Not my actual face? Or my accent? Or coffee, Jack?”

“I’m not going to apologize for needing some convincing, you’ve been dead!” Jack’s anger drops, and he stares sadly at Ianto. “You’ve been _dead_.”

“Not exactly,” Ianto says.

“What?”

“Time Vortex,” he says, recalling Rose Tyler and the music. “Apparently, it’s smitten with me. Refuses to let me die and all that.”

Jack shuts his eyes tight. “Fuck.”

“If this is going to become the ‘but immortality is a curse!’ conversation,” Ianto sighs, “you can just stop there. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.”

Everyone around them was staring. Probably because the local coffee seller just kissed and then punched the local hero. And probably also because they’re talking in English. Ianto’s surprised they both still know it well enough to use it.

“Look,” Ianto says. “We can talk about this later. There’s someone else who’s been waiting a few thousand years to see you.”

He grabs Jack’s hand before Jack can protest and hauls him out of the crowd and out of the marketplace.

“Hold on, hold on,” Jack says, pulling them to a halt just outside the festival area. “You know my mother? You speak Boen? You gave them coffee?”

Ianto shrugs. “Your mum likes me better than you, I had to speak to Eumelia _somehow_ , and did you really think I could give up coffee?”

Jack processes this for a moment. He frowns and frowns, until Ianto rolls his eyes. That’s when he breaks out into a grin.

“Ianto Jones,” Jack says, shaking his head. “You are full of many wonders.”

Jack places his hand back in Ianto’s, and they begin walking again.

“You look older,” Jack says. “Thirty-ish.”

“You do, too,” Ianto says. He’s noticed the specks of grey hairs. “Early to mid-forties?”

“Somewhere around there. Aging doesn’t happen as fast anymore.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” It is. It’s nice to know he’s not going to be old and wrinkly in three thousand years’ time.

“I’m sorry this happened.”

Ianto sighs. “I thought we agreed to skip the whole guilt thing?”

“We didn’t. You just yelled at me. I didn’t agree to anything,” Jack points out.

“You are infuriating.”

“And you’re as sexy as ever,” Jack says.

“Don’t flirt with me now, Jack Harkness,” Ianto warns.

“Fine, fine.” Jack eyes him as they continue to walk hand in hand to Jack’s old home. “After all this time…”

“‘After all this time’ what?” asks Ianto.

“I’m still in love with you.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s… something.

 “I mean, I didn’t think I _wouldn’t_ ever be,” Jack continues, oblivious to Ianto’s inner turmoil. “I just thought that over all these years, it would change, somehow. But it hasn’t. It’s still the same as it was back then, and-”

“You love me?” Ianto asks, cutting him off.

“Yeah,” Jack says slowly. “You didn’t know?”

“…no, I suppose I knew. Know.” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t think it’s something we’d ever… say. That’s why I waited. And I think that’s why you didn’t say it back.”

“I wished every day that I did,” Jack says, so quiet that it’s barely even a whisper. “I was so afraid you died not knowing that you were loved.”

“I did,” Ianto informs him. “I knew it. You showed me. I mean, maybe not so much that week, but that’s okay. Besides, I’m still here. Plenty of chances to fix it.”

“And how was it?” Jack asks. “Your trip from the twenty first century to the fifty first?”

“Strange,” Ianto says. “Mainly because the Time Vortex didn’t let go of me so easily. Fucked up my brains. Couldn’t remember a thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not going to lie- not pleasant. And in order to fix all that, I had to find you. You’re some sort of Time constant that apparently can fix Time problems. Don’t look at me like that, I’ve got no clue. All I know is that I’ve spent three thousand years looking for you, Jack.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Yep. But I didn’t stay because of you.”

“My mom?”

“More or less.”

Jack smiles sadly. “I would’ve come back sooner for her. I just had to wait until the Time Agency completely fell, just so that I wouldn’t end up screwing over myself or John Hart. Timelines.”

“Captain John Hart…” Ianto whistles. “Haven’t thought about him in years.”

“I was tempted to find him,” Jack admits. “Fix the whole thing over with… with Gray.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t tell your mum about… that. Partly because I couldn’t remember, but mostly because I hoped you would come back and do it yourself.”

“Thank you,” Jack says softly.

Ianto shrugs awkwardly. “She deserves to hear it from you.”

“Well, that too, but I meant thank you for taking care of her.”

“It was nothing. I just found someone as lonely as me.”

 “Bond over the ‘I left you high and dry’ club?”

“Little bit.”

Jack stops abruptly. Ianto cocks his head slightly as a ‘what?’

“Do you think she’ll be happy to see me?” he asks.

He sounds like a child. He is, in a way. He’s Ada’s child, and he always will be.

Ianto smiles. “Yes, Jack. She’ll be happy to see you. Now, hurry up. If you’re lucky, we’re eating fish and chips.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. Had a blast making stuff up for Boeshane. Seriously. I had so much fun that I may have gotten a bit carried away. Maybe more than a bit. May have also broken canon a bit, too, but I don't care so much about that. (You don't have to actually think the Face of Boe=Jack. I just appreciate the coincidence)  
> Again, not edited, because I wrote the last word and immediately posted the fic.  
> Anyway, hope you like it! Thanks!


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